


Ghost World

by Blanquette



Series: The doctor is in [2]
Category: B.A.P
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Child Neglect, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hope, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Relationship(s), Roommates, Understanding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-12 16:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13550922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blanquette/pseuds/Blanquette
Summary: Himchan works as a psych nurse in an institution, and finds himself taking care of one Moon Jongup.Himchan has a lot of questions, he's almost on a quest, really. A quest of understanding and healing, that will allow him to grow and rebuild, maybe.[Set after The Moon Shines More Than Usual but you don't have to read it]





	1. Chocolate and Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm back in this universe!  
> As stated in the notes of the previous work and some of the comments, I was interested in exploring some of the minor characters that appeared in The Moon, especially Himchan. So this will do just that! Hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> A big thank you to IM_JHoney for helping me feel more confident towards this work, and letting me shamelessly use her to test ideas.

Himchan lets his head thump back against the backrest of the sofa, eyes slowly falling close. He’s tired, so very tired. Sleep would never suffice; he needs a momentary death. He is very much alive, though, chest raising and falling with each breath, specks of yellow lights dancing against the back of his eyelids. There are days where his body doesn’t feel like his own, going through the motions without the license of his mind. Today isn’t one of them, though, he’s feeling everything too acutely. The soft material of the couch under his fingers. The hard edge of the backrest digging into his neck. Noises from the neighbors upstairs, the rumor of traffic outside, the light breeze fleeting through the open window, trailing goosebumps on his skin.

He sighs softly, wiling the tension of the day to leave his muscles. If he stays like this long enough, he will start melting, body seeping into the couch, through the floor, down, down, down, until he reaches the damp earth buried beneath slabs of hard concrete. He could carve a hole there, curl up in the darkness, warm, safe, and forgotten. It doesn’t happen, though. His body remains whole. Blood and bones and flesh, making up the sum of his being.

There’s a sudden weight falling into his right side, followed by a content _oof_ , and Himchan opens his eyes, blinking wearily, willing the scattered fragments of his thoughts to come back to him from every corner of the room.

“Stop eating all my damn chocolate.”

“I didn’t.”

“You so did.”

Youngjae, as it is him indeed, brings his knees up against his chest, burrowing more comfortably on the sofa as he turns on the television. He’s still wearing his work clothes, a crumpled shirt and a tie that don’t suit his baby face. Himchan looks at his profile from the corner of his eyes. Youngjae’s gaze is glued to the television’s screen, and the waning light of the early evening colors his face with greying shadows. Himchan tries out a smile for his benefit, but Youngjae isn’t looking at him, so he lets it slide off his face, replacing it with a frown, then a glare, an upturned smile, a pout, a sorrowful gaze, one after the other, until it finally registers that Youngjae is now staring at him.

“What the heck are you doing, hyung.”

Himchan throws his arms open.

“Theater.”

Youngjae looks unimpressed and sucks in his bottom lip, shifting his attention back to the television.

“Have you ever thought of turning your job into an opportunity to get your own head checked out?”

“Should I?”

Youngjae snorts, and Himchan smiles at the sound, a small, private smile the other doesn’t catch.

Youngjae is a happy being. It is etched into his features, his laugh, his smooth voice and the words it spells. Himchan is constantly on the lookout for traces of this happiness, spilling out of Youngjae in colorful bursts. He picks them up carefully, files them away like an entomologist cradling strange and delicate creatures. He takes them out sometimes, when the sorrows he trudges through daily threaten to overtake him. Youngjae doesn’t know. He doesn’t need to. There are burdens Himchan cannot unload on others, lest he brings them down with him. And he needs Youngjae to remain as he is. Happy. A bit oblivious, maybe.

So he settles more comfortably on the couch, and lets Youngjae steal from his warmth as neither of them wants to be the one to get up and close the window. A nice lethargy descends upon the small living room as they’re watching the show unfold. Himchan doesn’t really pay attention, humming occasionally in response to Youngjae’s comments, stifling a yawn, bleary eyes tearing up. He closes them again after a while, lets his head fall on Youngjae’s shoulder.

He is shaken awake a bit later, when the credits are rolling on the darkened screen of the television. Night has swept into the room, drowning everything in soft shadows.

“Come on hyung, now spill.”

Himchan sighs. Rubs at his eyes, sits up straighter.

“There’s nothing to spill.”

There’s a roll of inquisitive eyes, a huff. He’s shaken again.

 “Really? Come on. I know you. Your face’s all smooshed. There’s something.”

“I’m not ‘all smooshed’. It’s nothing, really.”

“So there is something. Even if it’s nothing. Work with me, hyung.”

Himchan has a half-smile, something small and barely there. He tries.

“One of my favorite patient got out today.”

“Are you even allowed to have favorite patients?”

Himchan laughs, shakes his head.

“We’re not supposed to play favorite, no. It’s not really something you can control, though.”

“Isn’t that a good thing, that they got out?”

It should be, Himchan thinks. It is. But he can’t help the something dark weighting him down. He is here for people at their worst. That’s his job, and he doesn’t get a share in the life he helps rebuild. He should be okay with that, really, he should be okay with not knowing what happens once his use has run its course. He’s not the main character in these stories, after all. Still, he can’t help but wondering. What happens, after. Can you truly be happy, after living through death. Of course, everything tells him, of course. And he must believe it, if only because his patients do not.

“It is a good thing. It’s just. Sometimes I wonder what happens to them, you know, after they leave. When they stop returning for good. What makes that some of them manage, and some just… Don’t.”

Youngjae hums, slowly nodding his head. He’s sitting cross-legged now, thoughtful, looking younger than his years. Himchan laughs, ruffles his hair until Youngjae slaps his hand away.

“It’s fine, Youngjae. I’m just feeling a little bit blue. It will pass.”

Youngjae pouts, stares at Himchan before dropping his gaze. He’s drawing patterns on his knee, fingertip lightly brushing the dark fabric of his dress pants. He’s not looking up when he speaks again, and his voice is small, as if he would rather Himchan not hear him.

“I know. It’s just. I understand why you chose this career, I really do. But I think maybe it wasn’t the right reasons? I mean. I’m not sure it’s going to help you understand, why, you know… Why it happened. I think it just makes you feel worse.”

Himchan stares at Youngjae quietly, at the black hair falling into eyes that won’t look at him. There’s anger, somewhere in the pit of his stomach. How dare he judge me, how dare he bring it up, how dare he, how dare he. But it’s too strong an emotion, and there’s not enough left in Himchan to fuel it; it sizzles right out, a small fire under heavy rain. It’s weariness that remains, weighing him down, no strength left in his heavy limbs. So he can only sigh, reclining on the sofa, head thrown back to stare at the white ceiling painted grey by the night.   

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe you’re right.”

Youngjae’s head snaps up, eyes wide.

“I am?”

 “I mean. It sure as hell doesn’t make me feel any better. But. I’m good at it. For some reasons.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“So I’m going to keep at it. Until I’m satisfied.”

Youngjae shifts, biting the inside of his cheek. He spares a glance towards the window left open, the crisp evening air invading every corner of the room, making him shiver.

“You do know that it could never happen, right?”

“Then I’ll make my peace with that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I give you a year.”

“I knew it couldn’t be this simple.”

Youngjae laughs then, bright and genuine, and Himchan feels a weight leave his chest. Youngjae gets up, finally closing the window.

“And, hyung. Seriously. It’s been months. You really need to get a place on your own. You can’t just keep living out of your trunk and my sofa.”

“Why not? How will I ever raid your chocolate supply if I leave?”

Youngjae stands tall, hands on his hips, rolling his eyes.

“I knew it. Have you any idea how much that chocolate costs?”

“Not my fault you have luxury tastes. My patients love it too.”

“You’re giving it to your patients?”

“Just the one.”

There’s a whiny, exasperated _hyung,_ a laugh, from himself maybe, a shriek, and then Himchan’s smothered by a pillow, Youngjae straddling him screaming nonsense, laughing, fending off his half-hearted attempts at freeing himself with more whacking of the offending object. Himchan is trying to soak up as much as he can, putting everything away for later use, tiny moments making up his ongoing definition of happiness. There’s a quiet thought at the back of his mind, too. A pressing question. Why couldn’t moments like this be enough. What went wrong, what was missing. What could he have done better, what should he have asked. Which words needed to get out that did not.

There’s a hit stronger than the other and his thoughts shatter with the triumphing yelp Youngjae lets out. Himchan laughs, wincing a little. Youngjae always wins, these days. It’s okay. He doesn’t mind being on the losing end.

 

 

 

When Himchan enters the familiar room, he doesn’t look at the right side. He doesn’t look at the empty desk, at the clean bed with fresh sheets resting on the mattress, neatly folded in a white rectangle. He doesn’t look, instead turning his brightest smile towards the small figure curled up on the armchair pushed against the far wall, head buried in a book.

“Hey, Jongup. How are we feeling today?”

Jongup looks up, blinks, as if trying to remember who Himchan is. There is a slow smile spreading on his lips as he puts the thick book face down on the armrest, to keep the page. It’s one of the books Minhyuk graciously left behind, a strange story about faraway realms, endless quests, and disappearances. It held Minhyuk’s attention for weeks, until he refused to read on. He didn’t want to know, he said. It wasn’t the only book he left unfinished. If he liked it enough, he never wanted to know the end.

“I am fine.”

Jongup folds his hands in his lap, looking up at Himchan like a schoolboy waiting for instructions. Himchan sighs, lets his hand fall from the doorknob.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“To ask me how I’m doing?”

Himchan licks his lips, swallows a smile. Jongup is a strange story of his own.

“Not exactly. You were supposed to be in therapy twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh. I forgot.”

“You forget a lot of things, Jongup.”

The boy winces, gaze fluttering from his hands to Himchan to a spot on the wall, where it settles.

“It’s just… It’s not that interesting. I don’t have much to say. I don’t understand why I have to go there. I am fine now.”

You’re really not, Himchan wants to say, but he can’t. So he walks further inside the room and sits on the bed, Jongup’s gaze following his every move with slight worry, as if he was expecting a scolding.

“You remember why you’re here, right, Jongup?”

A slow nod, eyes dropping to wringing hands.

“You need to talk about that. You don’t have to have crazy insights, okay? Just talk about yourself.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

“We’re not asking you to be interesting.”

The same smile is back on Jongup’s face, slow and slightly faded, like everything else about him. He looks like a memory of himself, Himchan thinks, seated there on his threadbare armchair. Half there, half gone, full of holes and only slightly accurate. Maybe he’ll disappear if Himchan closes his eyes. His voice is clear, though, almost sweet.

“You’re funny.”

The nurse really doesn’t find anything funny in their conversation, but then again, Jongup seems to apprehend everything on another level than everyone else.

“A real clown. Come on now, I’ll bring you there, okay?”

“Can I finish my chapter first?”

Himchan, already risen, shakes his head and Jongup pouts, looking forlornly at his abandoned book.

“It will still be there when you get back. Come on, hurry.”

Jongup is doing some version of passive-aggressively dragging his feet as he follows Himchan through the hospital corridors. It lacks conviction, though, and he gets distracted halfway through by the nurses and other patients they come across, smiling at every one of them as if it was his duty.

They’re nearing the consultation offices when Himchan slows down, turning to look at Jongup thoughtfully.

“Hey, Jonguppie. That book. Will you read the ending when you reach it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Jongup looks up at him, head slightly cocked to the side, too-long bangs falling into his eyes. Himchan sighs, already feeling idiotic.

“What if you don’t like it? What if you imagined it better? You could, you know, just make one up, one that suits you.”

“But it wouldn’t be the truth. I don’t care if I don’t like it. I want to know.”

“Even if it makes you sad?”

“Yeah. It’s just one book. There will be plenty of others to make me feel better about that one. Why? Did you read it? Is the ending terrible?”

Himchan smiles, shaking his head.

“No. I haven’t read it yet.”

“I’ll tell you then, when I finish it. If it’s terrible or not.”

Himchan laughs, genuine this time, and pushes Jongup towards the door.

“Sure. Protect my fragile heart. Now go before we both end up in trouble.”

Jongup turns around, flashing him a smile and a wave before disappearing through the door. In these moments he looks just like a regular boy, fleshed out and happy and here, and Himchan wonders if that’s what he looked like before whatever happened, happened. It’s sad, he thinks, how life clawed at him until he was barely there, a washed-out memory of his former self. Sometimes it would flash here and there through cracks in the barricades he raised to protect whatever was left, high walls and dogs to guard the gates.

In lack of chocolate, Himchan needs a cigarette. A quick look at his watch tells him he can probably spare the ten minutes it would take him, and soon enough, he finds himself in the small courtyard, shivering on his favorite bench, under the familiar trees that have seen so much. They have lost all their remaining leaves, now that winter is fully here, naked branches pointing at the sky like so many bony fingers. Himchan exhales a smoky cloud, tilting his head back. The sky is low, of an icy grey that bears no smudges of white, the air so crisp it almost hurt when he breathes it in. It feels like snow. It will at least be a month until it comes, though, and for now, everything is just holding its breath, quietly waiting. Himchan is waiting, too. He’s not sure for what, yet, and he desperately needs for something to start. Something new. Something to get him out of the limbo he finds himself lost in.

There’s a gust of an icy wind, stronger than the other, and Himchan shivers, chilled to the bones. He squashes his half-burned cigarette, stands up. It’s time to go back inside. Back to work, back to washed-out smiles and forgotten duties, back to crushing sorrows he doesn’t know how to handle anymore.

He finds that his feet refuse to move, and so he just stands there, shivering under naked trees.

 

 


	2. One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Jongup takes us for a stroll, Himchan meets an old acquaintance, and Youngjae protects what's his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know they don't have that magpie song in South Korea, hell, we don't even have it in my own country, but bear with me :'D

There’s a magpie perched on the naked tree Jongup can see outside the widow. He can’t remember if it’s bad luck, to see only one, and what he is supposed to do to ward it off. The magpie ruffles its feathers, fussily slicking them with its beak. It croaks once, twice, and Jongup bows to it when it looks towards the window before taking flight. There is nothing to look at anymore. He still stares.

“Jongup. Moon Jongup. I’m talking to you.”

Jongup nods, slowly gazing away from the window to settle his absent gaze on the person sitting opposite him behind the desk in the stuffy office they’re in. He tries to remember what they had been talking about, before the bird distracted him. It doesn’t come to mind. He hopes the magpie finds its mate.

“Jongup. We were talking about what happened. Do you remember?”

Does he? He remembers being scared, he remembers loud voices and something breaking. He remembers wanting to be anywhere but there, and he remembers –

“The policeman was nice. He took me away.”

The policeman had had big hands that he had warped around Jongup’s bony wrists, and he had pulled him out of the kitchen, out of the house, in a car with tinted windows where the inquisitive stares of his neighbors couldn’t reach him. Jongup had liked the tiny, secluded space. He had felt safe, curled up on the backseat until the policeman with the big hands had come back. He had talked with a slow, quiet voice that didn’t really fit with his big frame, and Jongup had latched onto it, letting it drown out everything else. He had been nice. He had taken him away.

“Why did he take you away, Jongup?”

Jongup is looking out the window again. There is no more magpie, no more bad luck, were you supposed to salute? There was a song, wasn’t it? One for sorrow, two for joy, and was it seven? For a secret never to be told. He turns back to the woman, willing a smile on his lips. She really looks like she wants to know, and he doesn’t want to disappoint. So he licks his lips and lets his gaze drift back to the window.

“My mom’s always tired. I’m tiring her out. And sometimes, she can’t handle it anymore.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing. She sat me down. To talk.”

The person behind the desk is nodding, so Jongup must be doing something right.

“What did you talk about?”

“How I wasn’t going to school anymore? Something like that.”

“And then what happened?”

Jongup frowns, eyes not living a single leave still hanging onto the magpie’s branch. He stares until a stronger gust of wind finally breaks its will to stay put. It falls, carried away in a split second.

“She started yelling, and it hurts sometimes, the sound. I wanted to leave.”

“Did you?”

“No. I stayed put. My dad came in.”

“And what did you do?”

Jongup shifts, drops his gaze from the window to his hands resting in his lap. If he turns the right one over he can still see tiny scars on his fingers, specks of white against tanned skin.

“There was a glass of water on the table.”

He had just wanted it to stop. The loud voices, the fingers digging into his arm, the heavy stares. He couldn’t really explain it, what had come over him. But the glass of water was there, and he needed them to stop. He had been surprised at how easily it broke when he had smashed it against – was it his mom? His dad? Did he only hurt himself? But there was more screaming, and his hand hurt, and there was blood mixed with water dripping on the prettily tiled kitchen floor.

“Can I go?”

The woman sighs, puts down the pen she had been twirling in between her fingers. Jongup stares at the movement, at the slender hands free of any blemish.

“Jongup, you will have to talk about it eventually. We need to get to the bottom of this. Because it wasn’t the only time, was it?”

“Do we have to? I am fine now.”

She says nothing, looking at him thoughtfully, and Jongup patiently waits her out, splaying his fingers on his knees, gaze darting from his bony knuckles to the naked tree outside. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for –

“All right. We can stop here for today.”

She closes the file opened before her in a definite gesture and Jongup stands immediately, bowing before exiting the room with a light step, relieved. Despite the woman behind the desk, he likes it, here. The empty corridors, the white walls, the small, quiet room where he can just exist. The place feels almost out-of-time, as if they had managed to make physical the barrier he had risen between him and the rest of the world. No expectations resting upon his shoulders, no heavy stares, no tired sighs full of meaning. Here he doesn’t need to be useful. He can just be, and for him, it is enough.

No one is here to bring him back to his room, so Jongup takes to wandering the corridors. The sky is hanging low outside the windows, doling out a sharp light that gives a crisp relief to everything it touches. Out of time, out of sight. Jongup stops to stare outside a window overlooking the courtyard, singing softly under his breath. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for – he can’t seem to remember the rest, and he takes to repeating the short phrases over and over, gaze gliding over the naked trees, the bench he has yet to sit on, the dried-out lawn. He stays awhile, before resuming his walk through the corridors, extending his arm to let his fingers lightly brush the walls.

He passes by nurses, patients, visitors, but no one really pays attention to him. He smiles to himself, an invisible boy in a too-big hospital, and his mind wanders. What would he do, if he was truly invisible? It would be nice, he thinks, he would be in peace. He stops walking once he realizes he looped back towards the window overlooking the courtyard, and he presses his brow against the cool glass, looking downwards at the empty space below him. His breath is fogging up the window and he sees the glass disappearing, sees himself inescapably tip forward through the opening, his body falling, falling down down down until it reaches the ground, and –

“Jongup? What are you still doing here?”

He startles, jerking away from the window to look towards the familiar voice. Himchan is standing in the corridor, looking at him expectantly.

“I was just… I was just looking out the window.”

Jongup wonders which expression he had on, looking down at his own mangled body, wonders if Himchan caught anything that will spur on questions he doesn’t know how to answer. But the nurse just breaks into one of his patented caring smile and Jongup relaxes.

“Wanna take a stroll outside?”

“Not particularly. I will just go back, now.”

Himchan nods, something flickering in his face that Jongup isn’t quite sure how to interpret. The smile is back soon enough, though, and Jongup winces slightly at the artificiality of it all. Too often Himchan would feel like a stand-in trying hard to fill a role that wasn’t meant for him, spilling too much or not enough, trying on faces that wouldn’t quite fit. Jongup wants to ask, sometimes, wants to know what leaves him looking so unfinished, what it is about the something dark swirling behind his polished exterior. He knows it’s not his place, though, so he doesn’t, and the words stay dormant in his throat.

He must have been staring for too long, Himchan’s smile had time to slide off his face and Jongup can see he is about to say something. He’s cut off, though, by an angry buzzing from his scrubs pocket. The nurse turns off the beeper in an annoyed gesture and looks back at Jongup.

“Gotta go, front desk needs me. Don’t linger for too long, okay? You’ll miss dinner like last time.”

Jongup nods, slightly sheepish, and watches as Himchan disappears around a corner. He spares a glance at the window, but doesn’t look through it again. He knows what he will see. Instead he trudges back to his room at a slow pace, smiling and bowing to the staff he passes. They see him, this time, he allows them to.

 

There’s a familiar figure standing next to the reception desk when Himchan gets there, and this time the smile gracing his lips is genuine as he hastens towards the boy waiting for him.

“It’s been a while, Yoongi.”

“It has, right?”

“Missed me?”

Yoongi snorts, lightly hitting him on the shoulder.

“I just asked after you so you won’t have a nervous breakdown when you hear I came without saying hi.”

Himchan puts a hand over his heart, pouring fake emotion over his features.

“I have such caring patients, I am truly blessed amongst the living.”

Yoongi elbows him and there’s a gummy smile on his face Himchan doesn’t remember ever seeing. It pushes a something warm to the surface of his skin and he raises a hand to ruffle Yoongi’s hair before the other can duck.

“Come on, let’s go to the courtyard. You have ten minutes, right?”

“Yeah, I came way too early.”

It’s slightly too cold outdoors but they don’t mind, sitting down on the only bench there, like they used to do so often. It’s familiar and strangely foreign at the same time. Yoongi doesn’t feel exactly the same anymore.

“So, how’s it feeling, being on your own?”

Yoongi huffs, shifts on the bench a bit, kicking up dust as he does.

“I’m hardly ever on my own, you know. Kihyun hovers over me like he’s my mom and Minhyuk could get a gig as my own, particularly talkative shadow. Then I think I’m sitting alone in the living room but there’s actually Hyunwoo, doing god knows what in a corner. The guy is too quiet, hyung, way too quiet.”

“I’m trying to tactfully glide over you comparing your own boyfriend to your mother but you should know that it’s not easy.”

Yoongi laughs again, and it feels light and carefree. Himchan studies him, and it’s true that he changed. His cheeks are fuller, his eyes brighter, and he’s alert, now, fully engaged in the moment. It’s a far cry from the boy that woke-up in his hospital all those months ago, and a step forward still from the one who got discharged, choke-full of anxiety.

“You seem to have a good thing going on.”

Yoongi falls serious again, looking down as his cuffed sneakers.

“I guess.”

“Getting used to it yet?”

There’s a snort, Yoongi knocking shoulders with him, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. He looks pensive, features smoothed over by a faraway look that makes him look older, somehow, as if he had already lived a lifetime. Himchan guesses that in a way, he did.

“I think so. Waking up in my own bed is starting to feel like routine. Sometimes there’s Kihyun’s elbow digging into me and that feels normal, too. I’m going back to university in two weeks, and we have projects, with Namjoon and Hoseok. It’s still a bit… Stunted, with them, but you know, it takes time, I guess. It’s not easy but it’s not… it’s not that hard, either, I guess.”

Himchan nods slowly, suppressing a shiver when the wind picks up, looking down at his knees. He should buy new jeans, he thinks, these ones are worn out beyond acceptable, and he starts picking at the tired fabric to see if he can scratch a hole through it.

“What do you think?”

“Mh?”

He looks up at Yoongi, who is staring at him with an expectant look in his dark eyes.

“Is this it? Did I… Am I out of trouble?”

For now, Himchan thinks. For now, it is fine, and that’s it, people will think. And they will miss something, something that will just slightly fall out of place, just a pebble shifting under your shoe, but it will be enough. It will be enough, and they will miss the unraveling behind your eyes, and you won’t say anything because you don’t want to disappoint, and, and, and they will find you, but it will be too late.

“Himchan?”

Himchan blinks slowly, dragged out of his thoughts by Yoongi’s hesitant voice. He smiles at him, reassuring, and Yoongi seems to settle.

“Do you feel like you are?”

“I… I guess.”

“Then, yeah, you are. But don’t forget. You have a support system to rely on. Us, and your friends, and Kihyun. If something… If something doesn’t feel quite right, don’t wait for it to grow until it’s too heavy to bear. Talk about it, even if it feels unimportant, yeah?”

Yoongi goes to make a joke, but there’s something heavy in Himchan’s voice, in his unwavering gaze, the kind of solemnity that asks for a serious answer. So he nods slowly, shifting to face Himchan.

“Yeah, okay, I will.”

Himchan smiles at him, seemingly satisfied. They fall into easy chit-chat after that, and when it’s Yoongi’s turn to shiver Himchan gently nudges him back inside, he has work to do, after all, and Yoongi didn’t come here just to update an overbearing nurse about his life.

 

When he gets home that night, Himchan finds that Youngjae changed the location of his chocolates. It feels like a betrayal. He wonders if he could get away with smoking a cigarette, but Youngjae has the nose of a bloodhound and Himchan never seems to be able to scrub the smell out of his clothes well enough. So he just sits on the couch, legs jittery, fingers taping an erratic rhythm on his thigh. There’s this weariness again, washing over him, and he lets his head fall back, staring at the white ceiling like he did so many times, waiting again for his body to melt.

There’s the sound of the door opening, of footsteps coming closer, and a familiar weight is sinking into him but the voice in his ears isn’t Youngjae’s, and it’s so familiar his chest constricts, and it hurts, really, a deep yearning ensnaring his everything in a painful grip. He can’t be hearing it, he can’t and yet he is and – and he’s roughly shaken awake, Youngjae’s worried face hovering above his own.

“How many times did I tell you not to go to sleep without eating?”

Himchan yawns, sitting up straighter on the couch, and he offers a smile to Youngjae that does nothing to alleviate the other’s frown.

“I was just taking a nap.”

“Sure you were.”

“You changed the chocolate’s hiding place.”

“It’s not a hiding place if you know where it is.”

They stare at each other, frowning, Youngjae seated opposite him on the coffee table while Himchan tries to get the last tendrils of sleep out of his brain. Youngjae deflates first, rubbing at his face in a tired gesture.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Why?”

“Didn’t seem so pleasant.”

Himchan shrugs, and he knows Youngjae doesn’t buy it when he says he cannot remember, but the latter doesn’t insist. Instead he shifts from the table to the sofa where he molds himself against Himchan’s side, wordlessly comforting, and it irks Himchan, somehow, he’s that close to shove him off really, but then Youngjae turns on the television, a talk-show that seeps happy chatter into their too silent living-room. It is comforting, somehow, this artificial world of perpetual happiness and formatted beauty. It never changes, always there when you need it, exactly the same. They stay like this for a while, half-listening to the words, until a familiar song comes on and Youngjae shifts, bringing his knees up against his chest and looking at Himchan from the corner of his eyes.

“Junhong called. He wanted to know if you were coming next week.”

“Why didn’t he call me directly?”

“Because you don’t pick up.”

It’s not a reproach, just a fact. Himchan shrugs, training his eyes on the television, where a dark-haired singer tries to pour enough emotions in a song that’s getting away from him.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

“You didn’t go, last time.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to tell them who you really are.”

“I know.”

“You could just –”

“I know, Youngjae.”

There’s something definite in Himchan’s tone, and Youngjae falls silent, worrying at his lower lip, picking at stray strands on his sweater.

“I just meant… Maybe it would do you good.”

Himchan just nods, too aware of Youngjae looking at him with a soft expression he’s not sure he quite like.

“Will you just message Junhong, then? He’s waiting for an answer.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Thanks.”

Youngjae nods as he stretches his legs, satisfied, shifting on the couch until he’s halfway lying over it, feet in Himchan’s lap. He nudges at his belly and Himchan pinches his calf, earning himself a yelp and a kick. It’s easier, after that, something heavy finally dissolving in the air between them.

They decide to order in, eat greasy take-out in front of a stupid movie. It never used to be just the two of them, and there’s the glimpse of a familiar smile and the echoes of a loud laugh near his ears, filling the achingly empty space in-between them they never seem to acknowledge. But it disappears soon enough, just like a dream, and it’s just Youngjae and him, and it should to be enough, it needs to be enough.

Himchan texts Junhong later in the night. I’ll go, he says. He gets back a thumbs up and a smiley face, shows it to Youngjae who just knocks shoulders with him, mouth full of cold noodles. It will be all right, he says. Himchan really wants to believe him.   


	3. Grasping the Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Youngjae and Himchan share a drink, while some of Jongup's issues come to light.

Jongup has bony shoulders and a sheepish smile. Sharp cheekbones and a faraway stare. A sprained wrist and a bump on his forehead. Himchan wraps the compress three times around and puts a splint over it, not too loose, not too tight, either. The boy winces anyway, and Himchan wonders for a split second if he’s not just acting out the reaction he believes he should be having.  

“Okay, you’re good.”

Jongup looks at him expectantly and Himchan stares back, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“You’re not scolding me?”

“Do I usually scold you?”

“Yeah, all the time.”

Himchan sighs, takes to ruffling Jongup’s hair with a sharp smile. The kid just ducks his head and resignedly waits for it to be over.

“Just look where you’re going, okay?”

“I was.”

“Then how the hell did you fall down a flight of stairs?”

Jongup raises a finger, seemingly thinking it over. He puts his hand down soon enough.

“Gravity, I guess.”

Himchan rolls his eyes, pushing his stool away from the examination table Jongup is sitting on to grab at the chart left on the counter. Something’s bothering him, really, in Jongup’s nonchalance, in his quiet submission, and something else, too, that he cannot quite pinpoint. He looks at him, sitting there on the table, legs dangling, feet hovering above the ground, swinging slightly. It’s too much of a familiar sight, Jongup waiting out an examination after getting into yet another incident he brushes off as inattention.

“Just go and be careful. I’ll notify your parents.”

“You don’t have to.”

The nurse pursues his lips, looking up at Jongup who’s just staring back at him with an earnest look on his face.

“I kinda do.”

“I’m an adult. You don’t have to.”

“They have a right to know what happens to you while you’re in here. It’s policy.”

Jongup’s face darkens for a split second, before he smooths his features over with a small smile.

“We don’t need to burden them with that.”

Himchan stares, trying to find any traces of the fleeting shadow he’s not quite sure he didn’t imagine. But there’s nothing in Jongup’s face, nothing beside the empty smile he bears too often. The nurse shifts, uneasy, and his shoulders slump in a shrug.

“All right, as you wish.”

Jongup’s eyebrows shoot up as he leans over, the same cheeky smile plastered on his lips.

“Are you all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“You never let me win that easily.”

Himchan winces, working out a crick in his neck before answering.

“I just… I have to go somewhere, and… And it’s none of your business, Jongup.”

He leans over, lightly hitting Jongup over the head with the chart he was absently reading. Jongup doesn’t even blink.

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s not for you to know. Now scram, I’m not gonna share my private life with you. Boundaries, damnit.”

Jongup shows him his teeth in mock-offense but he doesn’t insist, leaving the room with a light step and a wave. Himchan stays put, staring off in the distance. He replays their interactions in his mind, absently chewing the inside of his cheek, wondering what it is about Jongup that unsettled him so much. He looks down at the chart in his lap, at the tiny characters spelling out the patient’s recent record. There’s too much, somehow, for the short time that elapsed since he was admitted. It sits uneasily with Himchan, and it’s too much of a familiar feeling for him to ignore. He did it, once. Dismissing groundless worries because there was no tangible proof something had shifted in the wrong direction. Dismissing them because, above all, he wanted to believe everything was fine. Never again, though.

He gets up, slowly tiding the room to run the argument over in his head. A quick glance at his watch tells him Jongup’s psychiatrist is probably still in her office, reviewing the day’s cases, and he’d rather she thinks him too overbearing than not enough. It’s a small distance to the upper floor, and he finds himself knocking on the office door sooner than he thought. He pokes his head in when he hears a small voice answer, and the woman looks up at him from behind her desk.

“Do you have a minute?”

“To talk about Jesus?”

Himchan snorts, and some of the tension that had seeped into him relaxes its hold on his shoulders. He slips his whole body through the door, closing it behind him.

“To talk about Jongup.”

The psychiatrist closes the file she was reading, giving her whole attention to the nurse standing before her, noticing his fidgeting and the nervousness in his darting eyes.

“Take a seat. What is it about Jongup?”

Himchan sits down in the padded chair, crossing his hands in his lap. He swallows, feeling suddenly a bit silly, sitting in this stuffy office with not much more than a vague assumption that something is not quite right.

“It’s just… He hurt himself. Again. Fell down the stairs this time, sprained his wrist.”

She nods, and Himchan drops his gaze to his hands.

“He didn’t want me to notify his parents. Didn’t want to ‘burden’ them with that.”

Himchan swallows, licks his lips. She says nothing, intently listening, and that’s enough to spur him on.

“That kinda raised some flags and I thought… He keeps having accidents.”

There’s a beat of silence then, and Himchan’s gaze drifts to the window while the doctor takes off her reading glasses, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. There’s a lonely tree outside, swaying gently in the breeze. Himchan stares at it until the woman speaks again.

“You think he’s hurting himself on purpose.”

He winces. Nods.

“I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, but…”

It doesn’t seem so far-fetched, now that it is spelled aloud. He wishes she could contradict him, brush aside his worries. She doesn’t.

 “That would be consistent with what I’ve been observing. He feels… extremely guilty, towards his parents. He seems to think they’d be better off without him, and in a way, I’m afraid he’s right. If he is indeed displaying self-destructive behaviors, that might be playing a role.”

Himchan bites his lips, sighing. He wonders for a split second if there’s any parents anywhere that managed to not damage their offspring in one way or another. There’s a tiny woman that comes to mind, with hair pulled back in a serious bun, a man in a sensible suit sitting next to her at a dining table, a voice, a voice so familiar, telling him he shouldn’t come anymore, because it’s becoming too obvious, too obvious, and they can’t know. He shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts with an iron grip on his thigh, and he looks up at the woman that’s peering at him curiously.

“Why… why would he think that?”

She shrugs, playing with a discarded pen on her desk.

“I’m not sure yet. He’s a difficult patient. I’d like to talk to his parents. The staff will need to keep a sharper eye on him in the meantime. No more incidents, Mr. Kim.”

“He doesn’t seem… Is this…”

Himchan pauses, reasserting himself. The doctor just watches him, and he feels too exposed under her stare.

“Should we prepare for the worst?”

She has an indulgent smile, meant to be reassuring, maybe. Himchan tries to smile back. It comes out crooked, and he drops his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s that severe yet. We have time.”

He nods, and she leans back in her chair. The conversation is over, Himchan understands. 

“I’ll notify the floor staff. We’ll keep him out of trouble.”

When the door closes behind him he exhales a long breath, falling slightly backward until his head bumps against the wall. He stays there for too long, lost in thoughts. Jongup with his pretty smiles and light steps, Jongup with his faraway stares and too few words. Jongup with too many accidents, with a sprained wrist and a bump on his forehead. Himchan sighs, rubbing at his eyes, suddenly weary. It used to be easier. When he was still eager, still obsessed by procedures and care techniques, by the idea to help, and do good, and be a savior. When the fear of utter, terrible failure didn’t shadow his every step.

He lets his head fall to the side, looking through the window at the other end of the corridor. The evening is slowly eating away at the last light of the afternoon, and he should really go home, before it gets truly dark. His shift ended, after all, in the middle of him wrapping Jongup’s wrist. He can’t will himself to move, though, limbs heavy, and he slowly slides against the wall until he’s crouching on the linoleum floor. He rubs at his face again, pressing cool fingertips over closed eyelids. There’s too much clutter, in that dark pit that has steadily been growing inside him for the past year. Stale words that should have escaped ages ago. Memories stuck on a loop, bleeding out into his empty reality. He cannot be a savior anymore.

The door bumps into him when it opens, and he almost looses his balance before righting himself and standing up. Ms. Shin is looking pointedly at him, peeking from around the door, and Himchan offers her a sheepish smile.

“What are you still doing here, Mr. Kim?”

“Nothing, I was just… Thinking.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and it can’t be good, he thinks.

“Thinking about what?”

“Just… Stuff.”

He winces, knowing how this must sound. But she doesn’t press the issue, righting the shoulder strap of her bag and closing the door of her office, locking it in silence. Himchan just stands there, painfully awkward, until she turns towards him.

“Next time, you can just come in, you know.”

Himchan knows what it is she’s offering, and her smile is warm when she clasps him on the shoulder as she leaves. He watches her disappear around the corner before dropping back on his heels. He’s supposed to be stronger than that, he’s supposed to help, not be the one in need. He exhales slowly, staring at his hands. There’s too much escaping him right now, too much seeping through his fingers. He can feel something build up inside him, pushing under his skin, and he hopes he is sewn tight enough, tight enough that he won’t spill too much when he inevitably burst open.

 

There’s light and noises in the living room when Himchan makes it home that night. It’s unusual. Youngjae’s shoes are haphazardly thrown in the entrance, and he stares at them without moving. He feels invaded, somehow, even if this isn’t right, because this really isn’t his home. But Himchan has come to love the idle peace of Youngjae’s apartment when he comes back after his daily shift, when everything is still as it was in the morning, when the darkening light is the only thing that has changed. Warm and soft, and he can simply be for a little while, until Youngjae comes home, and he has to perform again. Himchan has come to rely on these few quiet moments of solitude, where he lets his body melt against the sofa, eyes closed but not really sleeping, just listening to his own heartbeat and his own quiet breathing. Not tonight, then, he shrugs, and kicks off his shoes to step into the living-room.

Youngjae is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a music show blaring on the television. He’s wearing only a tank top and his underwear, trying to reattach a button on a white dress shirt that is starting to look increasingly like a cleaning rag.

“How can you be so bad at this?”

 Youngjae jumps, cranes his neck to look at Himchan, needle pointing towards the ceiling.

“Welcome home, you look like shit. I sucked at arts and crafts since conception. It’s one of my rare flaws.”

Himchan rolls his eyes, falls more than he sits next to Youngjae, who wordlessly passes him his handiwork before propping his feet up on the coffee table. Up and under, more stitches than is strictly necessary, but the repetitiveness of the gesture has something soothing, and Himchan takes to reinforcing the other buttons as well. Youngjae says nothing, but his eyes keep darting from the television to Himchan’s profile until the latter puts down the needle to look his way.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just. Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Just tired. Worried about one of my patients.”

Youngjae settles back, humming under his breath. Himchan picks up the needle again, wondering if it would be too much to fix the slight tear he noticed in the slit of the shirt’s sleeve. Youngjae perks up again, though, jolting him out of focus.

“Hey, wanna drink?”

“Why?”

“Because I wanna.”

Youngjae doesn’t wait for an answer, springing up and out to the kitchen while Himchan fumbles with the sewing supplies cluttering the coffee table. Youngjae comes back with too many beers and too much soju but Himchan figures it can’t hurt, really, to let go once in a while.

They end up laying side by side on the floor, a disemboweled bag of honey chips in between them, pleasantly buzzed. The ondol is making the floorboards nicely warm under their backs, and a soft sigh escapes Youngjae’s chest as he nestles more comfortably.

“This is nice. I feel nice.”

“Yeah.”

“I hate my job, you know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I would have studied something else had I known.”

“Like what? What do you wanna do?”

“I don’t know.”

It comes out as a drawn-out whine and Himchan snorts, trying to figure out if he can take a sip of his beer without having to sit up. He gives up halfway through, scooting closer to Youngjae instead, burying his cold feet under his calves. Youngjae mumbles a weak protest that he ignores.

“I don’t know if I like my job anymore.”

“You do. You just, you just let it take over too much... you know.”

“Too much what?”

“Just… too much.”

Youngjae is waving his hands in an all-encompassing gesture that doesn’t mean anything, and Himchan smiles at him in that soft, dopey way alcohol induces in him. He’s hyperaware of everything around him, strangely, of the soft noises from the television they muted down, of Youngjae fidgeting near him, of the warmth that radiates from his calves, warming his feet, warming his whole being, really. And there’s a small weight next to his heart he finally acknowledges for what it is, so he turns his gaze towards Youngjae, and puts it in words.

“I can’t go. I’m going to cancel on Junhong.”

Youngjae’s eyes snap to him and he hoists himself up on one elbow, looking over at Himchan with a frown.

“No you’re not.”

“I am. I know I am. I don’t know why I was lying to myself. I can’t go.”

He feels better, for acknowledging what is simply a fact, really. He’s going to cancel on the kid, and that’s that. Youngjae doesn’t seem too pleased, though, looking at him with a furrowed brow before finally letting himself fall back on the floor. He raises his legs, and the warmth leaves Himchan entirely.

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“Excuse me?”

“What about Junhong? Do you think he wants to go all alone? Don’t you think it’s hard for him too?”

Himchan stays silent. He hadn’t think about Junhong’s feelings, to be quite honest. He hasn’t think about Junhong in a long time.

“You’ve been basically ignoring everyone except me, and that’s just cause I was never really involved with you guys in the first place. And because of my couch. Holy shit you’re just using me for my couch aren’t you.”

Himchan laughs. It’s really not a laughing matter, but he does, he laughs, and Youngjae is hitting him in the chest with swift fists but not enough anger for it to really hurt, so he lets him, until they’re both spent and fall back, arms limp at their sides.

“You suck, Kim Himchan. He needs you. You’re not the only one who’s suffering.”

“I’m just… I’m not ready.”

“At this rate you’ll never be. Just go and confront it, really. Junhong’s doing you a favor. And if you bail on the kid this time I don’t know he’ll ever forgive you. He wants you back. Everyone does. But people get tired of waiting, you know.”

“Ah, this turned too serious for a night of drinking.”

“It’s your fault, you emo jerk.”

Youngjae kicks him in the shin and Himchan starts laughing again, but it’s cut short as the laughter turns into an ugly sob stuck in his throat. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, exhaling softly, until he hears Youngjae shifts next to him, and the warmth returns to his body, and there’s a hand awkwardly patting his hair.

“Hyung. I know it’s hard. I can’t really imagine how hard, but, you know. Don’t… don’t push people out. Especially not Junhong. I think… I really think it could help, if only a little.”

There’s a strangled sound coming from Himchan’s throat, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he lets his hands fall from his face, locking his gaze on the ceiling overhead.

“So you’re the psych nurse, now?”

Youngjae snorts, but his hand doesn’t leave Himchan’s hair, threading softly through the black strands. Himchan closes his eyes again, trying to focus only on Youngjae’s fingers, on his warmth and his presence, letting him drown out the stifling uneasiness that has nestled in his stomach.

“Well ya know, it’s just common sense at this point. Seriously, though. You will go, right? Please.”

Himchan swallows around the knot in his throat, nodding. He has come to a decision.

“Yeah, all right, you win. I’ll go.”

There’s a tiny, victorious _whoop_ from Youngjae’s side, and a tired smile spreading on Himchan’s lips. They stay like this a long time, not talking, until sleep makes itself known through yawns and bleary eyes, and they begrudgingly trudge over to Youngjae’s bed, too drunk and lazy to pull out the sofa-bed. Youngjae just wants to sleep. Himchan tries not to think about what is coming.

 

 


	4. Songs on the radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jongup has a family visit that sheds some light on what happened to him.  
> Junhong takes Himchan to a reunion of sorts, doesn't really get the expected result, but it's all right anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some heavier angst than usual I guess? Slightly longer chapter as well.  
> Thank you so much for leaving comments and kudos. This one is a bit close to my heart, so it means a lot that someone else would enjoy the story.

Over and under, up around the thumb and down again, over and under, then a clasp, to keep it secure; an exact repeat of the gestures he’d had a few days earlier, although Jongup’s wrist is now noticeably less swollen, its skin back to its usual honeyed shade. Himchan doesn’t look up while he works, but he can almost feel Jongup’s sharp stare on his bowed head.

“There, all set.”

Jongup withdraws his hand and puts it in his lap. He stops staring at Himchan, gazing down instead, quiet. There’s something heavy hanging in the air between them, and it sits uncomfortably with Himchan.

“How do you feel?”

“It barely hurts anymore.”

“Good. And about what’s happening today?”

Jongup shrugs, looks to the side, anywhere but at Himchan. Silence, again. The nurse sighs, rubbing at his face with a tired motion. He gets up to tidy the little room, if only to give his hands something to do. Jongup remains still, until he hesitantly raises his voice.

“Will you be there?”

Himchan looks back, and once again it hits him, how vulnerable Jongup looks, sitting there on the gurney with his feet dangling slightly above the ground. He looks too young, almost ageless, really, as if he was stuck somewhere in time. Maybe he is, no progress made in the few weeks he had been there, a ghost stranded in the place of his death for all eternity, unchanging. There’s a shred of sadness unfurling in Himchan’s chest, and he drops his gaze, staring at the medical supplies he busies himself rearranging. Jongup has a fragility to him that’s too familiar for comfort. Too involved, Himchan repeats in his mind. Too involved. Too close. His heart is aching.

“If you want me to, I will.”

Jongup nods, jumping off the table with a small smile, his mask of easy nonchalance slipped on again as if his earlier show of weakness, of fear, really, had never happened.

“They should be done in a bit, right? I’ll go wait in the meeting room.”

Himchan watches him leave, staring at the closed door for a fair bit, mind blank, before coming back to himself with a jolt. He finishes his fussy tidying, arranging medical instruments in comforting parallels on the metal tray near the gurney. As he rights the end of a scissor a few millimeters to the left with the tip of his index finger, he mentally goes over his tasks for the day. A staff meeting he doesn’t want to attend. Supervising lunch time. His afternoon rounds, and sheepherding the attending patients to the Friday group therapy. 

Jongup, meeting his parents for the first time since he was committed.

And, above all, looming like a threat, Junhong.

 

The wall is cold were Himchan is leaning against it. He’s fidgety, taping his fingers in an erratic rhythm against his thigh, smoothing his scrubs over and over. He chances a quick glance at his watch and they should be done soon, already ten minutes above the allocated time. He thinks of Jongup, waiting in the bare room where he will take his parents to meet him. There’s an uneasy sort of anticipation gripping at him, as if this was a turning point for him, too. Too close, he repeats in his mind, too involved.

The door opens and the nurse gets off his wall with a start, hovering until the doctor finishes her goodbyes as he studies Jongup’s parents in what he hopes is a discreet enough manner. The nurse doesn’t really know what he was expecting, but this isn’t it. They are both shorter than him, slim and neatly dressed in a crisp suit for the man and a sensible blue dress for the woman. Jongup looks more like her, he thinks, full lips and almond eyes, even if the kid got his father’s nose and the shape of his face. There is something that bothers him in their demeanor, though, that he can’t quite pinpoint until the doctor directs them to him with a smile.

Himchan has met a lot of parents, working here. Worried to the point of anguish, pained and guilty, tired and lost and tired of being lost, angry, sometimes, too. He’s familiar with all of this, he knows the words to offer, he knows the motions, the ones that will give a kind of confidence, a reassurance that things can turn out all right, that they surely will, in the end. But this isn’t it, he thinks, when they turn towards him with a polite bow and a strained smile. They are here because they should be, because somehow, they have a son, and that gives them a duty they must perform.

Himchan stiffly bows in return and spares a glance at the psychiatrist still standing behind them, a question in his face, but all she offers is a shrug and a shake of her head. And so he strains his gaze back on them, inviting them to follow. They do, meekly, asking no questions, and as they progress towards the little meeting room Himchan’s uneasiness at their silence grows. He needs a display of emotion, whatever it might be, so that he knows where he stands. But there is none, they go through the motions as if they don’t really want it but have long since resigned themselves to their fate.

He doesn’t say anything when a last turn lands them in front of a door. It’s slightly ajar, and Himchan knocks before entering, saying nothing. The silence had been so stifling he’s not sure he knows where his voice has gone, and only gestures the Moon couple inside the tiny room, offering Jongup a smile he hopes reassuring. The boy doesn’t look at him, though, wide eyes trained on his parents, and he drops his gaze when they take the two chairs opposite him and sit down. The awkwardness makes it almost painful to watch and Himchan, standing beside the closed door, chooses to gaze through the window instead.

The third floor only allows him a glimpse to the top of the trees, displaying their bare branches against a grey sky. It hangs low, spilling a greyish kind of light that washes everything in subdued, muddy tones that do nothing for Himchan’s uneasy mood. Time seems to stretch as the silence grows inside the room, and he starts fidgeting, until Jongup’s mother finally speaks. Himchan settles, then, doing his best to make himself as inconspicuous as he can. She speaks in a hushed tone, maybe too aware of the nurse’s presence behind her, and Himchan can’t make out any words. He watches them, though, as discreetly as he can.

They don’t touch him, Himchan notices. Jongup sits slightly hunched forward, head tilted as if he was straining to better hear what his mother was saying, hands splayed on the table top. His parents both sit upright opposite him, back straight, watching but not touching, speaking in hushed voices, subdued words that don’t seem to elicit any kind of reaction from Jongup. He looks like a kid getting a lecture by the principal, and Himchan starts up a new rhythm against his thigh. There’s a hesitant smile on the mother’s face, and she tries, it seems, but her words are too weak to bridge the chasm growing between them. Too little, too late, Himchan thinks, and he wonders if it could ever have been any different.

 

“How is it, in here? Do they treat you well?”

His mother’s voice is quieter than Jongup remembers. Maybe it is the setting, hospitals do tend to have a hushing effect on people, as if something precious was sleeping there that shouldn’t be awakened. Jongup nods, forcing his lips to curve into a smile. He watches her, watches him, too, but he sees nothing in their faces. She hesitates, raising a hand that hovers near his for an uncomfortably long time before returning to her lap. He looks at his own hands, lying on the table top. The bandage Himchan wrapped around his wrist goes up to his thumb, around his hand and back down to the middle of his arm. They didn’t ask what happened. Maybe they already know. Maybe they didn’t notice. Maybe they don’t care.

“It is fine,” he says, in a quiet voice. She nods. “I like it.”

“Good, that’s good.”

She smiles, small and hesitant. They have nothing to say to him, and he has nothing to share with them. They’re here because they have to, and they all know it. There’s a familiar feeling stirring in his belly, a thick molasse ensnaring his insides in its nauseous grip. His gaze drops to his lap, and the silence grows heavy around him. It’s weighing down on his chest, making it hard to breath, and his hands go clammy on the table top, his skin breaking in a cold sweat that makes him shiver. He swallows around a lump in his throat and tries to speak, but it’s too hard to breath, really, the air is thick as syrup and it suffocates him. He hears his mother’s voice, but he cannot make out any words over the white noise in his ears. So he tilts his head back, looking up at the white ceiling, a futile attempt at quelling the panic pushing under his skin by filling his senses with nothingness. It doesn’t work, and he wants to scream, but the sound remains stuck in his throat.

There’s a sudden weight on his left shoulder, jolting him, and a familiar voice in his ear, low and a little rough.

“Hey, Jongup, it’s okay. Look at me.”

He forces his gaze down and peers into Himchan’s face. His eyes are an inky black and Jongup stares until that’s all he can see, an inky black that fits all of him.

“Deep breaths, okay? Come on, do it with me.”

Himchan is touching him, a warm hand around his able wrist, bringing Jongup’s palm firm against his chest, and the nurse is building a rhythm that Jongup is trying to emulate, unsteady and labored. But the dark eyes don’t leave his, and the grounding weight stays on his shoulder, and if he just looks at the darkness it’s okay, really, it fits all of him. The heaviness crushing his ribcage slowly dissipates which each breath leaving his lungs, and he finds his footing again, slow but steady. Jongup closes his eyes, says a few words under his breath. Himchan hears him.

“I’m going to take him back to his room, he’s had enough for today.”

There’s other words, that Jongup doesn’t pay attention to. He keeps his eyes closed, he keeps his body under Himchan’s touch, and he waits until there’s a gentle nudge at his side. The room is empty when he looks again, empty but for Himchan, smiling down at him.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you back.”

Jongup nods, and the weight leaves his shoulder, the hand leaves his wrist. It feels cold, and he stares at his skin as if he could find traces of Himchan there. When he looks up, the nurse is gazing at him with worry.

“Everything all right? Can you stand?”

Jongup seems to mull over the question for a split second until he nods, standing up and holding out his arm for Himchan.

“Can you take my wrist again?”

Himchan looks back at him, slightly puzzled, but nods slowly and grabs Jongup’s wrist before pulling him after himself, out of the stifling room and through familiar corridors that dissipates the remaining fog in Jongup’s brain. He stares at Himchan’s hand around his wrist, at their matching skin as the nurse drags him along. His own hand is cold and clammy, but Himchan’s is warm and slightly too dry. It’s a marvel, Jongup thinks, this weight clamping down on his wrist, forestalling mind and body from slipping away in uneasy territories.

He’s still staring at Himchan’s hand when they stop in front of his own door, and the nurse looks back at him with a prudent sort of look, heads slightly tilted to the side, thoughtful.

“You all right there? Can I let go now?”

Jongup nods but doesn’t say anything, and he’s watching as Himchan tentatively lets go of his wrist. He almost wishes there would be some kind of imprint there on his skin, but there’s nothing apart from the remaining warmth of Himchan’s fingers, and that too vanishes overly quickly.

“I’ll come back for lunch, all right? And then you’ll debrief with Ms. Choi.”

Jongup nods, still staring at his wrist, and when Himchan opens the door to usher him inside, he lets himself be stirred almost in a daze. He looks around as the door closes, at his messy bed, at the almost empty desk, at the book resting on the armrest of his chair, only a few pages left to read. His world, safe and secluded. He wraps his own fingers around his wrist, and goes to sit down, pensive. He has an hour until lunch.

 

Himchan finds himself once again seated opposite Jongup’s psychiatrist in her stuffy office, and she’s looking at him with inquisitive eyes. He squirms, slightly uneasy, as if she could see through him and didn’t quite like what she was finding there. She heaves a soft sigh then, righting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and leans slightly forward. She looks tired.

“Anything else unusual, besides the panic attack?”

Himchan squirms again, racking his brain. A lot had bothered him during that encounter. One thing most of all.

“I don’t know if it means anything.”

“Go ahead.”

Himchan sighs, looking to the left, through the window that offers the same view on the same grey sky that the one in the meeting room had.

“He asked me to touch him.”

“Excuse me?”

He looks at her then, and the pointed stare she’s giving him brings a smile to his lips.

“Oh come on, doctor, what are you thinking.”

“Well, wouldn’t be the first time.”

She looks a bit jaded and Himchan has a tiny laugh, some of the tension sweeping out of him with the sound. The doctor shakes her head, stretching back on her chair.

“What kind of touching, then?”

“Just, he asked me to grab his wrist. I touched him during his attack and then let go, but he wanted me to hold his wrist again. I did, all the way to his room. He looked sort of disappointed when I let go again.”

She nods, and he finds the words then, of what had bothered him during the whole ordeal.

“He seemed… almost curious, like, tentative? As if he doesn’t really know how to go about it. And he’s usually… He doesn’t like being touched out of the blue. It’s one way, really. It’s like he’s just trying it out.”

There’s this nod again, as if somehow all of this makes sense, and Himchan hunches forward, waiting for some kind of explanation. He gets a question instead.

“How did they act toward him, his parents?”

This one is easy.

“Cold. Awkward. Didn’t touch him, if that’s what you’re asking. The father barely talked. The mom tried. Didn’t get very far. Then he panicked.”

She pinches her lips, and Himchan wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to seem overeager, either, so he settles in his seat, and waits her out.

“He’s not a wanted child. I think he knows it. I think they made it plenty clear to him, even without meaning to. I think they know what a family should be like, so they go through the motions, but there’s no real affect behind it.”

Himchan nods, and she stares off into the distance, thoughtful.

“I’m pretty sure his mother had a post-partum depression, I suggested we set up a consultation for her, as well as family therapy, but they didn’t take it well. They seem a bit, you know…”

“Asshole-ish?”

She snorts, slapping a hand over her mouth at the undignified sound, and Himchan grins.

“I was going to say way too proper and stuck-up, but I guess you’re right, too.”

“How does that translate for Jongup?”

“Well, apart from an obvious attachment disorder… Children want to please their parents, you know.”

“And his parents ideally want him gone.”

“Well, they don’t wish his death, at least not consciously.”

“Yeah, that would be way improper,” Himchan says with a look of false shock on his face, and the doctor shakes her head at the inappropriateness of the quip, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

“As I said, they don’t wish his death, but it would made everyone’s lives a lot easier if he had never existed.”

“Hence the self-destructive behavior.”

She nods, crosses her arms on her chest.

“This is still a little simplistic as far as explanations go, but it is a good starting point.”

“Well, shit.”

“You don’t say. How do we repair years of neglect?”

Himchan looks at her, torn between a smile and a frown.

“It is a little unsettling that you’re the one asking this question, you know.”

She laughs, uncrosses her arms to wave her hands.

“Now that I have some semblance of a diagnostic I can actually think of a treatment. We’ll see. At least he’s coming out of his shell a bit. Let him touch you if he wants, and do what he asks, within boundaries, of course. I think it’s time to give him a roommate, maybe.”

There’s a pang in Himchan’s chest then, flashes of a gummy smile and sharp eyes going through his mind. It’s gone soon enough, pushed out of his mind as he shakes his head.

“I’ll talk to the orderly.”

He lets out a breath when he’s finally out the door, rubbing a hand over his tired face. One more thing. There’s only one more thing to go through, and this day can finally end.

 

Himchan manages to ignore it during the whole ride home. He listens to too-loud music, singing jumbled up lyrics, driving maybe slightly too fast for what is entirely safe. He manages to ignore it in the shower, too, water turned slightly too hot, filling the room with a steam that prevents him from seeing himself in the bathroom mirror. He ignores it right up to the sound of the doorbell ringing through Youngjae’s apartment as he’s rummaging through his luggage, a towel tied around his waist.

He cannot ignore it anymore, though, when the door opens on Junhong smiling hesitantly at him, and when it comes crashing down Himchan has to remind himself how to breath. There’s a constricting feeling in his chest, and a hollow in his belly that makes him wonder if he’s just going to pass out from sheer anxiety. He forces a smile on his lips instead, welcoming Junhong inside the apartment, closing the door behind him, all easy gestures that really shouldn’t be making his hands this clammy.

Junhong stands awkwardly in the entryway and Himchan properly looks at him then, forcing down the knot in his throat. He always had trouble reconciling the tiny fifteen-year-old Junhong living in his memories with the twenty-one-year-old behemoth he became, standing there in front of him in a severe suit that just puts a bit too much emphasis on his legs.

“You look good, hyung.”

Himchan winces, looking down at his half-naked body. He lost too much weight for what looks entirely good on him, he knows, and his still wet hair are sticking to his forehead in an unpleasant way. There must be bags under his eyes, too, and… and he knows he doesn’t look like much, really, and so unlike the hyung Junhong used to admire.

“You don’t have to flatter me, kiddo.”

“I’m not. It’s been a while, and… and you look good.”

Himchan tries out a smile he hopes doesn’t look too much like a grimace. Junhong is a little too eager for what is fully proper considering where they’re going, and he doesn’t know what to do with this kind of enthusiasm.

“I don’t know if I’m late of if you’re early.”

“I’m early,” Junhong says a bit too quickly, and Himchan winces again.

“I’m going to get dressed, you can just… Sit anywhere.”

It’s painfully awkward, really, leading Junhong towards the living room, as he goes back to rummage in his luggage for the suit he knows he has there somewhere. Junhong sits quietly on the couch that should really be just a couch, and not his bed, blankets and pillow folded in a corner, Junhong intently not looking at them. He finally finds what he’s looking for with a little cry of relief, a wrinkled grey thing that will have to do, and he goes to lock himself in the bathroom with another strained smiled toward Junhong.

Get it together, he says to his reflection in the mirror. He closes his eyes for a bit, trying out the breathing exercises he saw his own patients go through countless times. It works, if only a bit, his breathing evening out, his heart hammering against his ribs in a less painful way, and he grips the corners of the counter, staring at himself. It’s going to be all right, he says. He finds that he doesn’t quite believe it.

His suit is still too wrinkled when he exits the bathroom, his hair sticking this way and that, and he almost goes back for Youngjae’s flat iron, but he knows Junhong lied and that they’re already late.

“I’m ready.”

Junhong’s serious stare racks over his body and he can feel himself shrinking.

“That will have to do, I guess.”

Himchan’s mouth hangs slightly open at that, but there’s a playful edge to Junhong’s tone, and a hopeful kind of lilt to his eyes; Himchan immediately gets what he’s trying to do. He shakes his head, forcing a smile to his lips, and swallows around the knot in his throat. His words come out lighter that he thought.

“We don’t all look like goddamn models, Junhong, have some pity for the rest of us plebs.”

The kid laughs, then, and it sounds genuine enough that some of the awkwardness lets off, and the vice-like grip on Himchan’s heart eases a little. He wipes his clammy hands on his pants, tries to smooth them over.

“Should we go?”

 

It should be easier than this, Himchan thinks, rooted to the sidewalk as Junhong patiently waits for him to get into his car, his long limbs folded behind the wheel. He clenches and unclenches his fists once, twice, finally opening the door and banging it close a bit to harshly once he’s seated.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Right now, before I change my mind, the tone implies, but Junhong doesn’t engage the ignition and Himchan turns towards him with something like begging in his face. Junhong isn’t looking at him, though, gazing down at his own hands gripping the wheel, and Himchan feels the urge to shake him. He doesn’t, the latter starting to speak in a slow voice that has the nurse straining to hear.

“Thank you for coming with me. I thought… I thought maybe it would be good. For you. Youngjae-hyung says… He says you haven’t talked about it, at all. And that… maybe you need some sort of closure.”

Himchan winces, turning his gaze through the windshield.

“Youngjae would shut up if he knew what was good for him.”

It’s unjust and Himchan knows it, but then Junhong laughs, light and carefree, and it’s such a surprising sound Himchan glances at his profile, and the kid looks back at him with mirth.

“He’s been nice enough to let you stay with him, cut him some slack. Plus he’s… He’s not wrong, is he?”

“I guess not.”

Junhong nods, seemingly satisfied, and finally starts the car. They stay silent, and it’s not entirely unpleasant, at first, Himchan resting his head against the window, and he starts to think that maybe he can do it, that this isn’t such a huge deal after all, but then they are nearing their destination and the air between them gets heavier, Junhong shifting behind the wheel, restless. There’s a low apprehension uncoiling somewhere in Himchan’s chest as he recognizes the neighborhood, and he closes his eyes, willing the memories out of his mind. The car stops, too soon, way too soon; Himchan isn’t ready.

“Hyung? Everything okay?”

“Sure, I just. I need a minute.”

Junhong nods, sitting there in silence, waiting him out. Himchan evens out his breathing, dares a glance towards the house opposite which they parked. The door has been propped open to let people in and out at whim. He can see some of them milling about in the entry way, recognizes one or two. He swallows uneasily, clammy hands gripping at the fabric of his pants. He nods slowly then, Junhong watching his every move.

“Okay. We can go.”

They make their way inside the house, Himchan hiding behind Junhong every chance he gets. They bow, say their greetings to people they recognize, until they find a small woman sited in a tired armchair in the living room.

“Junhong! You came. And this is…”

There is a spark of recognition in the woman’s eyes, and Himchan forces a smile on his lips.

“Kim Himchan. I went to high school with, with Yongnam.”

It’s strange, hearing himself pronounce that name. He hasn’t said it in months, and it suddenly gives a new reality to where he is, what he is doing, everything coming up in sharp relief around him. His breath itches, and he takes a step back, towards Junhong. The tiny woman doesn’t take note of his discomfort, and her tired eyes softens at the memory of him.

“Oh, yes. You used to come around a lot, didn’t you? And you were at… at the funerals, right?”

Himchan nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice anymore. I did much more than that, he wants to say, if only you knew. I was family, too, once. But the woman smiles a gentle smile at him, and she’s nodding, and the knot in his throat, the ache in his chest, they won’t let him speak.

“Please, go ahead.”

She nudges them forward, to the small table propped up against the far wall. There’s food there, neatly organized around a portrait Himchan doesn’t dare look at. He follows Junhong mechanically, bowing three times, sending up prayers he’s not sure how to word, putting up an incense stick Junhong gives him. It’s over quickly, too quickly for what it is supposed to mean. A send-off, goodbye, farewell, see you at the end, maybe, you’re gone but never forgotten.

Junhong stands and his own body does too, quicker than his mind that is still kneeling in front of the _jesa_ , still talking to someone that cannot hear him anymore. He’s not moving and Junhong nudges him slightly, a look of concern on his face, and when he looks up Himchan thinks that he might cry, something buried deep inside him fighting its way to the surface of his skin. He cannot, though, not here, where he is just an old high school friend who used to come up for homework and snacks and who fell out of touch, brought back by tragedy to pay his respects on a macabre anniversary.

Someone takes Junhong by the arm, then, urging him towards a table where people are eating and drinking. Himchan follows, but there’s a buzzing sound in his ears and he doesn’t understand a word that is said to him. He nods, smiles, puts food in his mouth to avoid having to talk, the taste like ashes on his tongue. He can barely swallow, and he finds the first excuse he can to get up and leave the stuffy living-room.

In no way does this make him feel better, in no way does this alleviate his grief even for just a moment. He feels like an impostor, and he is, in a way. A high school friend that fell out of touch. He snickers, a sad sound that feels strange to his own ears, and lets his head thump back against the wall he’s leaning on. Someone passes him by, absently bowing. He doesn’t return the gesture. Himchan wants to get out, really, forget all of this, but there’s too much people milling about, he cannot slip out unnoticed, and he cannot abandon Junhong, really, not when he already disappointed him so much. 

So instead Himchan slips away quietly, looking above his shoulder as he takes up the stairs. Nobody notices him, but he keeps his step light as he reaches the second floor. The blinds are shut, drowning the surroundings in a soft grey lightning that soothes his reeling mind. This place used to be familiar to him, in what feels like another lifetime. They would run up the stairs, throw their backpacks on the ground and forget their homework in favor of video games, books, or just each other, really. Himchan steps almost carefully in the direction of the bedroom, ignoring the echoes his brain is painting on the walls, on the pretty wooden floor, on the door he’s now standing in front of. It takes him a few seconds to push it open, and he sucks in a breath as he does. Nothing changed.

The desk pushed near the window, with the chair they broke that one time and shoddily repaired however they could. The raggedy carpet at the foot of the bed they used to fit themselves on to peer over the same laptop, knocking shoulders, brushing skin in more places than strictly needed. The bed he slept in multiple times until they were afraid it would become too obvious and Himchan just stopped coming over entirely.

He steps in, letting the door hang ajar. The air feels different here, heavier. It is out of time, this place, somehow separated from the rest of the house where the living dwell. Himchan feels as if he stepped inside a sanctuary, and he figures that he did, when he notices the dried flowers put upon the desk. He lingers, fingers brushing against the walls, skimming over the familiar books stacked neatly upon wooden shelves, before resting over the closed laptop gathering up dust on the desk, and it gets too much, suddenly, when his eyes fall on a stack of paper covered in a neat script, as familiar as his own.

The dull ache that nestled near his heart ever since he stepped in the house fully blooms then, spreading in waves, from his chest to his fingertips to the top of his ears. And he lets it, for once, he allows himself to drown in these feelings, here in this place that feels too much like a tomb. He trudges to the bed, lowering himself on top of the covers, and closes his eyes. He’s tired. So tired, and there’s no way out of this grief that has steadily been eating at him, nipping at the core of his being until he doesn’t remember who he is without the deep sorrow seated in each of his bones.

“Hyung?”

He looks up and there’s Junhong standing at the entrance, leaning slightly against the jamb. Himchan wills a slow smile to his lips, touches a finger to his face but there are no tears there to wipe off.

“Hadn’t see you there, sorry.”

Junhong shakes his head, takes a few hesitant steps inside the room. He must feel it, too, judging by the prudent look on his face, this sense of sanctity.

“I saw you slip upstairs and I, uhm… I saw Yongguk-hyung, he asked after you.”

There’s a pang in Himchan’s chest at the name, and he swallow uneasily, trying to get back into the present moment, to gather his scattered thoughts.

“I’m not… I don’t think I can, erm, talk to him right now.”

“Yeah, I think he knows, he didn’t seem to be expecting anything.”

They stand like this for a bit, staring at each other, silent, Junhong’s hand twitching at his side as if he wants to reach out but isn’t sure what is allowed anymore. Himchan is the first to move, brusquely standing up, trudging past Junhong and into the corridor. He doesn’t turn back, asking in a strained voice if Junhong is ready to go. The kid just nods, sparing one last look around the room before leaving, shutting the door almost reverently, hoping that whatever lays in there wasn’t disturbed by their intrusion.

 

Junhong’s driving too fast, way too fast, but it doesn’t matter. Himchan is taking his tie off, undoing the first few buttons of his collar, finally taking the breath that had been stuck in his chest ever since they had stepped foot into the house. He opens the car’s window, letting the wind ruffle his hair, and Junhong glances at him briefly before doing the same. After the stuffy atmosphere of the house, the wind battering their faces is almost exhilarating, and there’s something bubbling in Himchan’s chest that’s feeling a bit too much like a laugh. It’s inappropriate, really, but he lets it out all the same, a tiny giggle that has Junhong glancing briefly at him.

Himchan knows the stupid song currently playing on the radio, and Junhong must be reading his mind as he turns the volume up. They make eye contact, before Junhong gazes back onto the road, and there’s a collective intake of breath as they burst out at the exact same time, yelling more than singing over the song. The weird feeling in Himchan’s chest expands as he chokes out the cheesy lyrics, and Junhong just yells even louder, and somehow, it’s the most hilarious thing Himchan has ever witnessed.

He’s laughing, but he’s crying, too, now, fat tears that drip down his cheeks and wet the stupid dress shirt he had to wear for this meaningless ceremony. He looks at Junhong, still driving too fast, still singing, hair ruffled by the wind, and he’s young and beautiful and Himchan missed him so much, he really did, and he cannot fathom his reasons for pushing him away anymore. He’s just screaming over the song now, a long wail that the wind cradles and takes away from him, for him, small shavings off the overwhelming grief that nestles inside his being. When his voice breaks he feels lighter, somehow, and he tips forward, resting his head on his hands gripping at the glove box, suddenly exhausted. He looks at Junhong’s profile, who stopped singing in favor of just humming under his breath.

The song ends, leaving the waves to another piece that Himchan doesn’t now, with a slower beat and cheesily poetic lyrics. Junhong turns the volume down, closes his window just a tad, leaving a sliver of wind to gently ruffle his hair. Himchan sighs, his eyes not leaving his face.

“So I’m a high-school friend, now.”

There’s a snort, Junhong easing up on the gas pedal to bring the car down to a more reasonable speed.

“Well, that wasn’t really lying.”

“Mmh.”

Himchan closes his eyes, let’s the exhaustion wash over him. It’s not so bad, really, the wind feels cold against his skin, the air fresh in his lungs, cleansing, and he lets himself be rocked by the vibration of Junhong’s beat-up car.

“Hyung?”

“Mh?”

Himchan opens one eye, staring. The kid is worrying his bottom lips between his teeth, eyes glued to the road, and he doesn’t look so young anymore.

“Do you… Yongguk-hyung. Will you ever talk to him?”

Himchan sakes his head. Swallows around a lump in his throat.

“I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

“Will you ever be?”

Himchan mulls it over, thinks back on his conversation with Youngjae, stretched out on his floor, the gentle buzz of alcohol coursing through his veins. Go, he had said, go and confront it.

“I guess I won’t know until I don’t have a choice anymore.”

 

 


	5. While waiting for the sun to rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang holds some sort of wake and Jongup gets a roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Work is taking up more of my energy than I would like, and my thesis needs to be done soon, so writing had to take a step-back. I will try to update more regularly from now on though! 
> 
> Thank you so much to the people who commented and left kudos. These really keeps me going!

A strange spell falls over them as they reach Youngjae’s apartment. The atmosphere between them grows quiet and subdued, but comfortable, too, and Junhong doesn’t have to ask before following Himchan inside. It isn’t time to part ways, not yet, something is still lingering.

Youngjae is curled up on the couch with a book when they get in, in a too-big sweater that makes him look like a child, with his round face and messy hair. The television is on in the background, as always, a pleasant noise that makes him feel not so alone. He smiles as he takes them in, sitting up straighter and bringing his legs closer so they have room to sit.

“How did it go?”

Himchan doesn’t answer right away, sitting down heavily instead. Youngjae almost reflexively puts his legs in his lap, fitting himself around Himchan’s body, a grounding, comforting weight. Junhong hovers a little, unsure of how he is to fit in this sort of companionship. It doesn’t last, though, Youngjae motioning for him to sit down. When he does, Himchan slots himself against his side, closing his eyes as he reorganizes his thoughts.

“It just went. They left his room as it was. They didn’t touch it. It’s like he just left on a trip.”

Youngjae nods, fingers drawing lazy patterns on his thighs. On the other side of the couch, Junhong shifts a bit, extends his legs under the coffee table, staring ahead. It’s been a long time, the three of them, like this. He glances briefly at the head of the table, at the empty spots on the floor where there used to be more. There used to be more, and a dull ache settles in his chest. He immediately counters it with noise, raising his voice in an attempt to prevent the sinking feeling from taking roots in his being.

 “I saw Yongguk-hyung.”

His voice rings hollow but at least it reaches out and outside of himself, startling Youngjae out of a silent spell, and Junhong latches on his attention.

“Oh. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I barely knew he was back.”

“Yeah. I guess he’s done running away.”

Junhong bites his lips as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he glances warily at Himchan. The latter waves him off with a strained smile.

“It’s fine. I know what everyone thinks about me. It’s not entirely wrong.”

Youngjae stares at him over Himchan’s head, grimacing. Junhong doesn’t know who starts it first but there’s a strangled sort of laugh and then they’re both giggling, hiding in their hands.

“What’s so funny?”

Junhong gains back his countenance first. Youngjae just kneads Himchan’s belly with his toes, lips still stretched in a smile, eyes soft. Something lifts from their shoulders then, quiet and unseen. It feels lighter, somehow, cozier, as if the air was suddenly made of soft cotton wool they could safely hide in.

“Nothing, sorry. It’s just nerves.”

“Yeah, right.”

Youngjae jumps to his feet suddenly, startling them both.

“Anyone fancies a drink? I feel like it’s time.”

He didn’t have to ask. They sit on the floor around the coffee table as Youngjae brings out beer and soju, and a bottle of prune wine he finds at the back of a closet. There are snacks to be had, too, and he turns off the television to put on a record. Himchan doesn’t recognize it at first, but when it hits him he stares at Youngjae with a half-smile, a glass of beer halfway to his lips.

“Really?”

Youngjae shrugs, mouth in a pout.

“I thought it would be appropriate. He liked it.”

“He always had old-fashioned tastes, that hyung.”

Junhong crunches loudly on honey chips as they both stare at him, Youngjae looking scandalized.

“What? It’s true.”

“Geon Adeul isn’t ‘old-fashioned’.”

“Is too. I’m sorry you’re both dinosaurs with dinosaurs’ tastes.”

They both go to kick him under the table and he winces, mumbling something under his breath they don’t care enough to make him repeat.

“Show some respect, you brat.”

Junhong makes a face at Youngjae but neither insists, falling silent as the music draws them into themselves. Himchan nurses his beer, taking a sip from time to time. He’s slumping on the table, chin propped up in one hand. He knows the words to that song, and it takes him back, way back. Other drunken nights, spent screaming more than singing over Youngjae’s beat up record player, arms thrown around a familiar body, swaying and laughing, _we both made a promise, but you left me to go far away; if the dream I had in my youth could bloom again, I would make another promise, you and I, and a brighter tomorrow…_ Himchan sings under his breath, softly, over this old record of love songs from people that have long since faded away.

There’s a shift at his side, Youngjae sneaking an arm around his waist, resting his head on his shoulder. He’s heavy, and it’s a bit uncomfortable, but the warmth and the company are welcome. They sway a little together, a pale reflection of days gone by. It should be enough, like this, the two of them holding each other up. It has to be enough, this is all there is left. When Junhong goes to put on another record, they both have the same request. _I could have said anything, but I just lived without knowing the world_. Junhong watches them tentatively, standing still next to the player. He has different memories of those nights, memories of falling asleep curled up on the couch to drunken yelling he wasn’t allowed to partake in, because _you’re a child, Junhong-ah._ Memories of someone threading cool fingers in his hair, a heavy blanket falling over him. Waking up to groans and the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen, of being sent off with a tired wave and a gummy smile, running to school because of course he’s late again.

Youngjae waves a lazy hand at him and he joins them on the floor, his tall limbs folding awkwardly around the other man. He stays silent, listening to his elders sing off-key, and they sound sad and far away. Still, there’s a strange serenity falling upon them. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the warmth of the floor heated by the ondol, or just their own company, tangled as they are in each other, but for a time Junhong feels almost at peace. There’s something missing, though, something other than the gaping hole they’re all trying desperately to fill with each other.

“Yongguk-hyung should be here.”

“Yeah, he should.”

Himchan speaks with a low voice, eyes closed, as Youngjae is still humming softly between them.

“Why didn’t we stick together?”

“Because then it makes it too obvious.”

They all look towards it then, the place at the head of the table, where none of them had dared to sit. With his eyes closed Himchan can see him well enough, hunched over, both elbows on the table, absently chewing on a piece of food. His hair was always a bit too long, no matter how recent his last haircut had been. It was like a magic trick. However dressed he was he would always look a bit too rumpled, as if he was somehow constantly just barely waking-up from a nap. He would talk in a lazy drawl, too, giving out slow smiles and shaky laughs that came from deep within his chest. People who didn’t know him often mistook his appearance and his lethargy for a lack of intelligence. He always knew when people underestimated him. He wouldn’t mind. They would learn soon enough, that he was sharper than any of them.

It’s this languid quality to him that had first attracted Himchan. He had found it sensual, had wondered how it would feel, to have those slow, graceful fingers trailing his skin. He thought he was hiding it well, this strange attraction for an offbeat classmate he wasn’t even that friendly with, not yet. But there had been knowing smirks, some offhand remarks that shouldn’t have meant anything, jokes that weren’t really jokes, and a kiss, unexpected and awkward and hidden because no one could know. The friendship came after. Through the awe Himchan felt for his sharp intelligence, his strange humor and a mind always reeling with thousand thoughts. Too many thoughts, always. It had worn him down, after a while. And they hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t noticed enough. How severe it was getting. He had always been languid, after all, languid and quiet, certainly it was nothing new, nothing he wouldn’t get over. Himchan had been naïve. Himchan had thought love would be enough.

“Hyung? You okay?”

“What? Oh.”

He wipes at his cheeks, and his fingers come back wet.

“Well. I guess this is a day for crying.”

Junhong has a sad sort of smile, and he squeezes his arm lightly, soon dropping his gaze to his own glass of beer. Himchan hesitates for half a beat before he takes an empty one, tracing the rim absently with cold fingers. He opens the prune wine and pours, slipping the glass to the head of the table. The others watch him in a sort of revered silence, eyes wide, and when he’s done, Youngjae arranges snacks on a little plate that he slides over. Junhong settles it next to the glass, puts down chopsticks on a napkin. They stare in silence at their little semblance of an altar, each to his own thoughts, his own grief. Youngjae is the first to raise his glass, and they knock back what’s left of their drinks at the same time, dropping the empty glasses on the table, careful not to make much noise.

They listen as the song trudges to an end, not speaking, as if words would shatter whatever it is that nestled amongst them, a quiet sort of aching melancholia that is still a respite from the overwhelming grief that was felt in this room, three hundred and sixty-five days ago. But the silence is still too heavy to bear, so Youngjae gets up when the record player starts running on empty. He looks through his collection for a minute, Himchan staring at his slumped shoulders. Youngjae looks small, weary, and the nurse wonders what kind of worry is plaguing him that he doesn’t know about. He doesn’t have time to wonder much, though, as Youngjae finds what he’s looking for. The record cracks a bit when the needle falls into place, and then familiar words reach his ears. He looks down at his hands, an aching smile gracing his lips. _And when I reach some peaceful lake shore, I will surely rot away with the water._

Youngjae comes back, crouching to sit near him in a companionable silence. Junhong has laid his empty glass sideways on the table and rolls it under his palm. They both stare at the gesture, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, and it has something soothing to it. Himchan feels Youngjae sag against his side; it hits him then, that he is now the stronger of the two. He drapes an arm around the other’s shoulders, and they feel tiny and brittle under his touch. _With yet another kind of touch, with yet another kind of words, we soothe each other._

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

He feels Youngjae’s head move against him, as he looks up. Himchan keeps staring at Junhong’s glass. Back-and forth, back-and-forth.

“I didn’t make things any easier for you, did I?”

Youngjae has a strained laugh, burrows back against Himchan, head half buried in his chest.

“It’s okay, I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“Still. I was selfish.”

“You were allowed to. Himchan, it’s okay, really. I think it helped, somehow, to have someone to take care of.”

Himchan nods. He thinks he understands, in a way.

_It will probably falter with each day, but stand up, stand up. Let’s try once more._

There’s a soft thump when Junhong’s glass goes over the edge of the coffee table, falling on the carpet underneath. They look over at him, and his eyes are closed, his head balancing precariously in his palm. Youngjae laughs, sounding light and airy, almost out of place in the quiet of this strange evening. It warms something in Himchan’s chest, though, in the hollow space between his ribs. Yes, he can try again with them, maybe.

“He still does that? Falling asleep in the middle of a night of revelry?”

“You call that reveling?”

Youngjae lightly kicks the nurse as he gets up, going to shake Junhong softly.

“Hey, kiddo, at least get on the couch. You can stay here for the night. It would be just like the good ol’days.”

Junhong just nods, letting himself be manhandled to the couch. Someone threads fingers through his hair, and a heavy blanket soon falls on him, too warm, maybe, but he burrows anyway, and something tight uncoils in his belly. Sadness, maybe, but he feels warm and serene, and the fingers stay carding through his hair, soothing, until his breathing evens out, until his eyes stops watering, until he’s asleep for good, deep and lost to the world.

“He’s a tough kid.”

Himchan looks back at Youngjae, seated on the couch’s armrest, brushing Junhong’s hair with his fingers. He looks peaceful in his sleep, younger that he does awake, lines of worries easing off his face.

“I should have taken better care of him. Instead of locking him out.”

“You should take better care of yourself, for starters. Then you can worry about everyone else.”

Himchan doesn’t answer, turns back to the music player instead, turning it off and putting the record back in its sleeve. There’s something ritualized with the proceeding, and Himchan understands why Youngjae cares so much about this outdated piece of technology. Turning the switches, putting the arm back as the needle rise, sliding the record in its sleeve and back up on the shelves, in the right spot. Small gestures done in the span of four breaths, and yet he feels calmer. He turns to Youngjae, who stopped petting Junhong to stare at him instead, hands in his lap. He looks tired, but appeased, somehow, eyes brighter than they had been a moment ago.

“Should we go to sleep? You have work, tomorrow, don’t you?”

Himchan slowly nods. There’s a strange reluctance at having the night end so soon, but he feels drained, too, as if something had been pulled out of him during the course of the day and he needed time off to adjust. So he goes through the motions in a daze, trying to understand exactly what happened, if he feels better or worse, if all this truly had any use whatsoever.

Youngjae is already half asleep when he lays down next to him, but the other shifts, searching blindly for his wrist to grasp under the covers. It is not a night to feel lonely, Himchan understands, and he finds his searching hand to clasp into his own. Youngjae settles, then, reassured, drifting back to deeper sleep and better dreams. Himchan stays awake longer, staring at the ceiling. He really ought to sleep, if he doesn’t want a headache to hound him the following day, but his mind takes too long to settle, his hand turning clammy in Youngjae’s grasp. He doesn’t move it, though, doesn’t change his position on the mattress even though he’s not as comfortable as he could be. He lies perfectly still, and waits for the sun to rise.

 

 

Himchan does get a headache, the following day. A nasty thing pulsing behind his eyes, but he forgoes his sleepless night and imputes it entirely to the man sitting next to him in the small office.

“Why him?”

He knows he sounds whiny, and unreasonable, and it’s confirmed in the furrows of the psychiatrist’s eyebrows. She sighs, eyes them both, and if Himchan still refuses to look at the other he can pretty much feel the smug grin he’s surely sporting right now.

“We thought it would be good for both of them to pair up.”

“Why wasn’t I consulted on this?”

He knows just as the words leave his lips. And she knows that he knows, but she still does him the courtesy of an answer.

“Jongup is my patient, Kim, not yours. You don’t have to be consulted on any and all decision we make regarding his stay here. I don’t have to justify myself to you. But, if you must know, we feel that Jongup must be socialized more than he is now, and well…”

“And you chose Daehyun for this? Of all people?”

He feels the other shift at his side now, and he chances a glance. Daehyun is leaning towards him, his usual grin in place. Annoyance makes Himchan’s skin prickle, and he decidedly stares back at the psychiatrist, who raises her eyebrows at him.

“Of course they did. I am delightful.”

Himchan wisely chooses to ignore Daehyun’s smooth voice, keeping his eyes on the doctor.

“You know why he’s here.”

He insists, and there’s a note of pleading in his voice that makes him wince. He knows this is a losing battle, but he cannot help himself.

“He made great progress, Kim. It will be good for him too.”

Himchan narrows his eyes at her, and she almost squirms. Almost.

“Are you trying to annoy Jongup into opening up? Is that it?”

Daehyun speaks up again, mock offense lacing his tone.

“I really don’t get what you have against me, hyung. I am perfectly reasonable.”

This time Himchan fully turns towards him, and, well. Daehyun is charming, always has been. He’s loud, all easy smiles and feigned nonchalance. Big features and an even bigger presence. He’ll eat you all up if you’re not careful. Himchan is careful, though. Daehyun hasn’t been here the longest for nothing.

“You know perfectly well why you’re here, too.”

There’s a shadow on Daehyun’s face and he narrows his eyes at Himchan. This, this is the real him, the nurse thinks. Sly and shifty, something grim lurking under his polished exterior. It’s gone soon enough, though, the easy smile falling back into place.

“I marched myself in here on my own. I’ve been nothing but helpful and diligent. Technically, I did nothing wrong.”

“You would have if you could have.”

“And yet I did not! See. This makes all the difference.”

A heavy sigh interrupt them from the other side of the desk. The psychiatrist looks tired. Himchan guesses he must not have been the only one to raise objections to this new rooming arrangement. Daehyun had been alone, too, until now. Himchan suspects that the arguments for putting the both of them in the same room aren’t just purely related to their respective treatment. The hospital lacks beds. Private rooms are not a thing they can afford for too long.

“Daehyun, please go back to your room and gather your things. Himchan, I’ll have a last word with you.”

Daehyun winks at him when he leaves, and in another life, Himchan would have probably punched him.

 

“I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the well-being of any of my patients. I do think this will be beneficial for the both of them.”

Himchan squirms. He knows he is in the wrong, that he doesn’t have the authority nor the legitimacy to discuss her decisions. But, still. It’s Daehyun.

“But it’s Daehyun.”

“And Jongup, I know.”

“He’s insufferable.”

“For you. Some people like him.”

“Some people have terrible tastes.”

She laughs, then, and suddenly Himchan feels better. He’s come to trust her, over the years they’ve worked together. He knows her judgement isn’t infallible, no one’s ever is, but she is usually right. It doesn’t mean he feels comfortable with this new development, but at least he voiced his concerns, and he knows she will take them into account.

“They will be closely monitored, of course. At the first sign of trouble this little experiment will be over. But I really don’t think there will be any, Himchan. And I think you know it too. I would bet you like him more than you let on.”

Himchan refuses to acknowledge that with anything more than a curt nod. She starts rearranging the file opened before her, and he knows then that he is dismissed. Not quite reassured, but still feeling better than when he came in, he leaves the office with a polite goodbye. That’s it, then. Jongup got himself a roommate, and it’s anyone’s guess how he will cope.

 

He copes with cold hostility, first. When Himchan steps into his room, Daehyun in tow, he looks at the both of them in turn, not moving from his spot on his ratty armchair. He stays silent, too, and Himchan notices with a little pang of satisfaction that Daehyun is a little baffled by the bundle of limbs glowering at him from behind an opened book.

“Jung Daehyun here will be your new roommate, Jongup.”

“I don’t want one.”

The answer is immediate and Himchan kind of wants to laugh as he feels Daehyun bristle beside him. He turns to him instead, his business smile firmly in place, and Daehyun narrows his eyes, perfectly aware of how amusing the nurse finds the situation.

“I bet you two will be great buddies in no time.”

Daehyun scowls while Himchan gives him a thumbs up. Jongup warily watches them again for some time, seemingly mulling over Himchan’s inconsequential words. He comes to a decision, and unfurls his body from the armchair, making his way to Daehyun.

“I am Moon Jongup. I don’t want a roommate. But hello.”

The kid sticks his hand out and it is so damn awkward Himchan watches Daehyun’s reaction with something akin to glee. Daehyun thrives in social situations he can control. People are predictable to him, easily read, and he crafts exactly the kind of personality that will allow him not only to fit in, but to dominate. Jongup is an unknown variable, though, and he’s destabilized. He has to put his bags on the floor first, and Jongup just stares, hand still extended, until he finally takes it.

“Jung Daehyun. Hello too, I guess.”

They shake, and Jongup seems satisfied that any duty regarding courtesy that could have been expected of him has been fulfilled. He trudges back to his armchair, takes up his book, and starts reading again. He doesn’t spare them another glance. Himchan joins his hands together, turning to Daehyun.

“Great. You guys will have so much fun together.”

Daehyun scowls, which only serves to widen the nurse’s smile. The man looks accusatory, as if this was somehow Himchan’s fault.

“This guy is nuts.”

“You’re nuts too, Daehyun. You’re in a mental hospital.”

“You know what I mean. Like, nuts nuts.”

He speaks in angry whispers and Himchan tries his best to stop smiling like an idiot.

“What, you thought he was gonna jump through the roof to have you as a roommate? He doesn’t care. That’s like, his whole thing. Guess you gonna have a field time, getting him to listen to your bullshit.”

“Dude, you know I need an audience to thrive. This cannot work. The guy’s an iceberg.”

There it was again, the thing that really bothered Himchan about Daehyun. He was maybe a bit too aware of the workings of his own mind. He had chosen to remove himself from society on his own, after all. That had never happened before, and it was, well, a bit unsettling.

“I thought you were a delight and anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“I never said that. Well, the first part maybe.”

“The second one was implied.”

Himchan knocks shoulders and Daehyun scoffs at him, brushing his sleeve off in a theatrical gesture. The nurse laughs and yeah, maybe, just maybe, the doctor was right and he doesn’t hate Daehyun as much as he fancies telling he does. He’s still a little shit, though. A little shit that is starting to unpack, and there’s a pang in Himchan’s chest, a dull ache weighting him down that really shouldn’t be there.

It is just strange, he thinks, to watch Daehyun appropriate this space that used to be someone else’s. He puts up a clutter of knick-knacks and notebooks haphazardly on the desk, a small pile of books on the nightstand. Himchan wants to tell him to be careful, respectful, maybe, of the traces of Yoongi that he will be sure to erase, just as he pushes the armchair further against the window when Yoongi liked it closer to the bed. It will pass, he knows, just as Jongup ceased to be Minhyuk’s replacement and became just Jongup, as a version of his being consolidated in Himchan’s mind. Daehyun, though. Daehyun is different. There is already a version of him in Himchan’s head, one that he doesn’t entirely like.

He chances a glance to Jongup and the latter is watching Daehyun too, curled up in a ball, face half hidden behind the pages. It’s a new book, Himchan realizes. Jongup never did tell him how the other one ended. He takes a few steps and Jongup’s gaze jumps to him, startled. The nurse stops walking, smiles, and waits for Jongup to relax until he takes a tentative seat on the bed. Daehyun’s irruption in his carefully ordinate life put him on edge, and Himchan knows now that the transition won’t be as smooth as the psychiatrist had hoped.

“Sorry about that. Sorry about him, too.”

There’s something in Himchan’s tone that brings a smile to Jongup’s lips and he unfurls a little, putting his book upside down on the armrest.

“It’s all right.”

“That’s a new book, right?”

Jongup nods, glancing at the object before staring at his hands.

“How did the other one end?”

The kid looks up, and there’s something akin to amusement in his eyes.

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not? You didn’t read it?”

“I did. But I am not sure if it is a happy ending or a sad one.”

“It can be a bit of both.”

“I guess it can.”

It seems as this is all that Himchan will get out of Jongup, and the nurse is prepared to leave when the patient raises his voice again. Jongup is looking at his fingers while he speaks, spreading them wide apart on his thighs.

“I think he should just have given up.”

“Who?”

“The knight, in the story. I’m not sure what he found is worth what he lost looking for it.”

“Maybe it is, for him.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back.”

Jongup looks up at Himchan, who offers him a small smile.

“Is that the whole saying?”

Himchan shrugs, his smile widening. There’s something juvenile in Jongup’s face, for once unclouded, another glimpse beyond the gates.

“A variation of it. I like it better than the original, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

The faraway look is back again, but it’s thoughtful, Jongup seemingly mulling over his conversation with Himchan, finding meaning in words spoken without much thoughts. Himchan knows a dismissal when he sees one, and he pats Jongup on the knee before returning to the other side of the room, where Daehyun is putting away the last of his things. He doesn’t have much, for someone that has been here for over a year.

 “So, you’ll be all right?”

“If extremely bored.”

Himchan doesn’t miss the dark stare Daehyun gives Jongup, who pays his new roommate absolutely no mind. The nurse knocks him on the shoulder again, and this time Daehyun doesn’t brush it off. He simply stares at him with a guarded expression.

“Come on, be nice. Don’t play your little mind games or whatever it is you usually do.”

“I don’t do anything, hyung. I don’t know where you got this idea I was some sort of criminal mastermind out to get you all.”

Himchan puts his index and middle finger at eye level before turning them back onto Daehyun. Who has an undignified snort and whacks him on the shoulder.

“Once I put my plan into action you’re the first to go, hyung.”

“I’ll stop you first, don’t you worry.”

Daehyun smiles and it feels genuine for once. Himchan is pretty sure that half the reason for his chronic dislike of Daehyun is that the guy manages to make himself just so damn likable that you have no choice but to fall for him, regardless of whether everything in his attitude is carefully calculated. Himchan is just stubborn enough to stick to his dislike. Somehow, this makes Daehyun more honest with him than with anyone else and maybe, just maybe, Himchan thinks there’s something underneath all his pretenses that might be worth knowing.

“I won’t touch your beloved, don’t you worry. I’ll be my usual charming self. ”

“There’s nothing usual about your charming self.”

Daehyun rolls his eyes when Himchan leans in to whisper in his ear.

“I know all about your terrible personality.”

The man whacks him again as he jumps back, retreating farther away from the nurse.

“This is so unprofessional. I should report you for harassment.”

“I am so wounded, Daehyun-ah. You know I actually deeply care.”

“Fuck off, Kim Himchan.”

Himchan grins, and for once does as he’s told, sauntering off to the door with a last wave towards Jongup, who raises his head from his book long enough to return it. When the door closes behind the nurse silence falls over the room, and it is unnerving enough to Daehyun that he goes to open the window, if only to hear the rumors of traffic outside. Jongup doesn’t open his mouth for the rest of the day. It’s barely if he even looks at him. Daehyun doesn’t try anything. He feels tired. Interacting with the staff often leaves him like this, especially Himchan. He doesn’t get him, and that’s unsettling. He doesn’t get Jongup either, but then again, no one does.

 

That night, sleep does not come easy to Jongup. He lays awake, staring at the ceiling above. It is never quite entirely dark in the room, the simple curtain not thick enough to conceal the artificial lights spilling from the streets. He used to dislike it, when he first came here. He used to miss his bedroom at home, silent and dark like a tomb. Here, there is always some kind of noise. A nurse’s footsteps while they make their rounds. Cars passing in the street. Someone laughing outside, or screaming. A dog’s bark. Life, all around. It used to make his skin crawl, until he came to like it. Burrowed under his blankets he felt like a watcher, removed but here all the same, quiet and unseen. It filled him with a strange giddiness, listening in on those lively sounds, and he built stories inside his head, giving them a meaning grander than they truly possessed. Jongup never thought of making any sounds of his own.

It is different, now. They put someone in his kingdom. An invader, truly, loud and bigger than the spaces left to fill. The sounds he makes aren’t lively nor beautiful; Jongup cannot attach any story to them. The other is overwhelming him, even in his sleep. Each of his breaths is like an incessant knocking on a closed door, and Jongup’s mind is reeling, barring him from falling asleep. His skin feels too tight, his fingers are itching. HeHe’s grabbing at his covers so tightly his knuckles turned white. He shifts slightly, looks at the privacy curtain he drew close in the middle of the room. If he can’t see the other, he can still hear him, sounds filtering easily to his side. The rustling of the sheets as the other toss and turns. His breathing, that isn’t quite as regular as it should be for someone asleep. Mumblings, half-hashed words that pass his lips deformed and unintelligible. Yoongi was silent as a stone. Jongup had liked Yoongi. He doesn’t really like this one.

When it gets too cumbersome, his skin too tight and his mind too heavy with sleep that refuses to come, he gets up, crosses the curtain, and goes to shake his roommate’s shoulder until startled eyes fall on him.

“What? What is it?”

“You’re too loud.”

Daehyun is silent for a bit, a face full of sleep that soon resolves into something sharper. His voice is an angry whisper.

“I’m too loud? What the hell? I’m asleep!”

“Still too loud. The breathing and, you talk.”

“I talk?”

Daehyun looks startled for half a second, looking on as Jongup nods.

“What am I saying?”

“I don’t know. It’s just mumblings.”

“Mumblings.”

“Yes.”

Daehyun has sat up and he’s rubbing his face. Jongup hovers, unsure if he can just go back to bed or if something more is supposed to happen. Daehyun looks all rumpled, smaller than he did during the day. Something has turned off that he hasn’t had a chance to turn on again, and Jongup somehow thinks that he looks better, like this, vulnerable and slightly ugly, a pillow imprint on his cheek and hair going every which way.

“And somehow, me mumbling is too loud for you to sleep?”

“I like silence.”

That’s not true, Jongup realizes as he says it. He likes noises, the familiar ones he has come to know. The nurses’ footsteps, Himchan’s voice, cars outside. He doesn’t like this stranger’s sounds. He hasn’t found a way to integrate them, yet.

“Okay, great. What are you gonna do, gag me?”

Jongup is slightly taken aback. Daehyun looks annoyed, suddenly, pushing his covers off him and raking a hand through his hair.

“I’m not going to gag you.”

Daehyun gives him a pointed look and Jongup shrinks back.

“That was rhetorical. Of course you’re not going to gag me. Unless you’re into it?”

Daehyun’s mouth turns up in a smirk and Jongup really doesn’t get it, the joke in there. It must show on his face because Daehyun deflates almost immediately, shaking his head with a strange sort of laugh.

“Christ, you’re an odd one, aren’t you?”

“Isn’t that why we’re all here? Cause we’re odd?”

“I guess so.”

They stare at each other in the dark for a little while, and Jongup feels better, suddenly. The stranger is slightly less strange, now that he knows what he sounds like in the middle of the night. Now that the something that surrounds him during the day is gone.

“I’m going back to sleep.”

Daehyun says nothing, just stares at him as Jongup disappears behind the curtain. Left alone he shakes his head, stretches, realizes he’s not so tired anymore. The clock on his bedside points to two a.m, though, and there’s not much he can do at this time. Sneaking around the hospital while making a game out of avoiding the night nurses lost its novelty after a while. He falls back on his pillow, rolling on his belly as he was never able to sleep on his back, somehow feeling too exposed. Just as he has to bring the covers up past his shoulders, even in warm weather. Something he carried over from childhood, he guesses, no matter how faraway it seems now. He tries to fall back asleep, to no avail, and is tempted to go wake Jongup just as he woke him for a split second. It passes soon enough, no fun in annoying someone who doesn’t fight back. He gets up instead, draping himself in his blanket, and goes to sit in the armchair he lugged against the window. And he stares beyond the dirty glass pane, he stares until the first ray of sunshine puts the outside world on fire.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs they listen to (in order) are Jeolmeun Miso by Geon Adeul, Saesang moreugo saranora by Song Golmae (the Hwaljuro version) and Ireona by Kim Kwang-Suk.


End file.
